


Minute forty two

by mandii



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Corruption, Death Threats, Fuck Or Die, Kidnapping, M/M, Time constraints
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-05
Updated: 2012-11-05
Packaged: 2017-11-18 00:35:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,318
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/554942
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mandii/pseuds/mandii
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>With John's life on the line, Sherlock plays into Moriarty's games.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Minute forty two

His eyes are searching everywhere, everywhere and anywhere at once, looking for an out, an escape. Not that he would really admit to wanting to escape from the man in front of him, but he feels on edge, feels his teeth bite into his lower jaw, set tight as his eyes settle on John, settle on those red lights that waver so delicately on his skin. He sees the fear in John’s eyes, notices the shakiness in his breath, the way he attempts to stand so still.

And then the man in the suit,  _Jim,_ Jim Moriarty, is there and it all makes so very much sense.

“Not like you to fall for the same sort of thing twice, now is it?” There’s a childish condescension in that voice, so smug, like he thinks he has Sherlock wrapped around his little finger. As if he’s got him all planned out, how  _stupid_ Sherlock must be for letting such things happen more than once. Moriarty is pacing, practically giddy, and Sherlock stays perfectly still, eyes tracing over the man, over the folds in his coat, the slicked back hair, the mirth in those eyes.

He refuses to say anything, to say anything seems as though he’d be admitting the other man is right.

“Oh, but your  _friend_ is!” He laughs and the lights dance along John’s skin, flicker along the bridge of his nose - one trained on his forehead, one trained on his heart, the other a bit lower. Moriarty continues,  head tossed back, arms widespread as he looks at Sherlock’s tense stance. “He likes to fall right into my traps you know, he’s not as smart as he looks.” Moriarty saunters closer, and his voice is oozing, like something slick and slimy that Sherlock wishes to wash away. The man is close enough that Sherlock can tell he’s had something garlicky for lunch recently, and he lifts his head, inclines it slightly, finally settling his gaze on the man.

“You would think the great Sherlock Holmes would keep better company,” He tuts, and his hand is on Sherlock’s arm. Sherlock’s jaw tightens more. “You need a  _smarter_ pet. More well-trained. But one can barely blame you for liking the cute ones.” Sherlock’s brow tightens at the implication and his gaze flits to John again, gulping and standing there with his hands up. “We have that in common.”

“What is it that you want.” Finally an answer, finally, a reaction forced out of him, however deadpan it might be. Jim Moriarty seems to be overjoyed, his eyes sparkling, his smile gleeful. 

“Pleasure.” One word, though it seems to make a shudder run up his spine. 

“Come again,” Sherlock chokes out, because it doesn’t add up, it doesn’t seem to fit their game, you take this and I take that. Moriarty kills, Holmes deduces. This has never been a matter, he’s not expected this.

“Oh, no, only once.” Moriarty can’t seem to stop getting closer to him, and Sherlock feels that hand grasp his scarf, tugging it away from his neck. The abrupt invasion of his personal space bothers him incredibly, to the point where he tenses and nearly knocks Moriarty away - only to stop his hand when his eye catches those lights on John out of the corner of his eye. And suddenly Moriarty is on him, and  _how did he catch me off guard_ runs through his head when those hands grasp his own, force him to the ground, and pull that scarf away.

“Here’s the deal, boy.” And his breath is hot against his ear and Sherlock closes his eyes, so very uncomfortable with that skinny man on top of him, gripping his hips with his knees, grinding down to let the detective know just how very serious he is. “You have thirty minutes. Starting…” He glances at his watch and nods. “Now. You’ll get me off in that time, or…well, you’ll certainly have a new opportunity to find a  _smarter_ pet. Pity you’ll lose the old one.” 

“And if I refuse.” 

“Then you make your decision for yourself!” He removes himself from Sherlock’s person, stands back, and glances up into the sky. The red dots on John’s body all synchronize, right at his head, and Sherlock steels himself and mutters. 

“I’ll do it.”

“Oh good. Good, good, good. See how  _easy_ this can be when you’re agreeable?” 

He’s not looking at him, not for some time, his eyes connected with the man in front of him. John is taking a deep breath, staring at him as if trying to plead with him not to go through with anything too rash. Moriarty’s patience is wearing thin, because before Sherlock knows it, his cold fingertips are slipping over the back of his neck, curling around to press at his jugular.

“Twenty-four minutes,” He murmurs, and it sounds hoarse, as though Moriarty’s already somewhat excited. He can tell, his fingers can push back and feel Moriarty’s pulse quickened, his breath heady, pupils dilated and skin flushed. The warmth certainly doesn’t extend to his extremities, those fingers feel cold and slimy against his skin, as if to match the sound of his voice. “Now then, you  _do_ know how to pleasure someone else, do you? For that matter, do you even pleasure yourself, Sherlock Holmes? I can’t help but wonder what causes your heart to race…” Fingertips tickle along the side of his collar, over down the side of his neck.

Sherlock turns, away from John, his mind racing. The concepts are there, he’s researched this a grand total of thirteen minutes of staring at a bit of John’s pornography left up on his laptop. It wasn’t a very useful thing to know, he had given it up when something far more interesting came up, but he knows there is a lack of clothing involved. He moves his hands and stares at them with disdain as he undoes the first few buttons on Moriarty’s suit jacket. It doesn’t seem that the other man wants anything to do with helping in Sherlock’s own undoing, his eyes are alight as he watched Sherlock fumble through his very own fall from grace.

He’s thankful that he can’t see John watching, if he is, and he prays he’s not. Revulsion is thick at the back of his throat as Moriarty merely mumbles a  _yes, dear boy, you’ve almost got it_ and causes him to shift uncomfortably, methodically removing the suit jacket, and the shirt. He’s trying not to stray too long, trying to keep things efficient. Just as he manages to get the belt undone, the trousers off, the lime green waistband of his underwear hidden beneath his pants, Moriarty speaks.

“Twenty minutes, Sherlock. You’ve wasted some time, haven’t you?”

He’s silent, and then awkwardly moves, removing his own clothing much quicker. Things are so much easier when you’ve done them - he’s removed his clothes a thousand times before and this is no different, though he’s hardly used to someone staring at him as intently as Moriarty is. His eyes flick up to Jim’s, meeting those cold, dark eyes, watching as that smile twitches into something that’s borderline deadly and pleased, gleeful all at once. He’s not moving, merely standing, waiting for Sherlock to make his next move. Sherlock can recognize that calculating in his eyes, can recognize the way Moriarty is memorizing every little movement, every little gesture Sherlock makes to attempt to further it along. 

Finally, Sherlock lifts to Jim’s eyes, his hand fumbling to grip at his cock, looking almost disappointed as he gives it a light stroke - once, then twice. Moriarty outright laughs at him, takes his hand and curls it around properly, showing him just how to do it right, “— But you’re not going to make me come that way, dear. Do you need a hint?”

Surely enough, he’s still flaccid no matter how much Sherlock wills him not to be. Time is ticking down and he nods reverently — this is something he should have researched he supposes, somewhere along the line the knowledge of sex and anatomy and pleasure would come into the forefront of his mind, of a case. His heart is racing and he nods and feels immediate shame, guilt rip through him, he’s asking for  _help_ from the consulting criminal in front of him. He shoves the sense of pride down, the emotions, the feelings that just barely skim the surface in a tightening of his jaw and a furrow of his brow, willing the other man to not notice such things. Moriarty’s smart, certainly, and he does notice little details — but whatever he does seem to notice only chooses to make Moriarty more inclined to help him. 

“You have eighteen minutes. In that time, I want to feel you inside of me.” He comes closer, and there’s something slick on his hand, something he’s kept well hidden away from Sherlock somehow. Lubricant. He was expecting this to happen, had planned it in advance. Jim’s  _grabbing him_ and stroking him suddenly, gripping him in a vice-like grip, hard and fast and unyielding as he slicks the lubricant against him. “You’re going to push me — here.” Jim’s backed them up against the wall, right where John is standing, right next to him, close enough that he can hear John’s breath rise and fall in a shaky rhythm. He’s trying to look away, but Sherlock can tell from the sound that he’s not, that his eyes are trained on the both of them. Sherlock makes a very, very big point to not face him. Jim on the other hand has curled a leg around his hips, has seemingly prepared himself, and Sherlock doesn’t really quite know the particulars of anal sex.

“Silly me, issuing such a challenge to a virgin…” Jim’s murmuring,and then yanking him closer. “You don’t know anything really, about this, do you? Do you even know where your cock goes? Even know what to do once it’s in?” 

He doesn’t answer and Jim Moriarty responds by slicking him up yet again with hands too slick to still be the small amount of lubricant he’d used before. He guides him, with a hiss, with teeth that sting at the side of his neck and dig in hard, nails that dig in and an adjustment that has Sherlock pressed just so, just  _so_ against him. 

“Twelve minutes, Sherly.” Jim’s voice is sing song and teasing, taunting, as if he’s got no earthly expectation of Sherlock being able to go through with this. His mind nearly evaporates from his head when he slips inside that tight body, albeit a bit shakily, one hand fisted against the brick wall at the side of Jim’s head and the other wrapped around the slim man’s hips. He’s praying biological processes kick in - Sherlock is nothing if not thought, but he attempts to rise above such a situation and allow his body to jerk against Moriarty’s, his own body feeling like fire as skin drags against skin. Twelve minutes. The usual time frame could be anywhere between two to five minutes, knowing that the average man once inside a woman generally is only able to last that long fifty percent of the time, but there are no facts, there’s very little Sherlock knows about bringing a man to orgasm, though his mind flits through prostate stimulation as a possible, pleasurable technique to avoid the build up of prostatic fluid. And he shifts, calculating, just shifting so, an incline to brush against the bundle of nerves, pushing against it with a heavy grunt.

It causes Moriarty to cry out. It causes him to downright shout, and grip hold of him, grab hold of the back of his neck and snarl at him. “Faster.” 

Sherlock’s fairly certain, confident and certain that he can save John’s life within the next ten minutes and it won’t take any longer than nine if he can help it. He’s still somewhat awkward, still somewhat fumbling, but he knows Moriarty is just as sane as he is, knows he can get to him with violence and anger and sweat, and when Moriarty snarls at him to move he  _moves,_ faster, as fast as he can help it, hands placed firmly on those skinny hips and thrusting into him hard, violently. Moriarty makes lovely sounds truthfully, he’s a bit easier to take like this, despite the man murmuring how he’s made Sherlock filthy, look at him, look at that innocence dripping away - 

“I’ll make you remember me,” He smiles, and it’s sort of sick the way his teeth show, the way Moriarty seems so pleased with himself. “You won’t be able to be with  _anyone,_ anyone at all, it doesn’t matter, man or woman, hell, you could fuck animals for all I know, and you won’t….” He clenches around him, purposefully, letting out a rather keen moan on Sherlock’s behalf. “You won’t be able to get this feeling away, will you? You’ll always…” He clenched again, and Sherlock’s realizing that Moriarty’s coming closer, and those moans are real,  _very_ real, and hardly theatrical. He slips a hand between them, he jerks the other man off, hard and fast. 

“Think of you.” Sherlock prompts, his voice dark, and breaking at the second word. 

Though he knows the game is over - knows it by white, knows it by the stains against his skin, the vile feeling of semen dripping down his chest, he finishes out himself - one thrust, two, and empties himself inside the smaller man. He slips out and immediately turns, away from John and away from Jim, immediately attempting to force away the image of Jim Moriarty crying out his name, practically screaming Sherlock for the world to hear. His ears are ringing but he’s  _won,_ he’s won John’s safety and beaten Moriarty at his own game, with a minute and forty two seconds left to spare. 

 

 


End file.
